


The Queen's Speech

by Anysia



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gen, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anysia/pseuds/Anysia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to find the perfect words to say to someone you spent years avoiding, but Elsa knows she has to get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Speech

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this idea while I was driving to work this morning and it just kind of happened. This fandom really, really needs more platonic/sisterly/non-incest-y Elsanna (like, YESTERDAY), and this is my contribution to that. It’s also something of a personal challenge, because I haven’t written as much Elsa/Anna interaction as I probably should, and my Elsa definitely needs practice. This is limited-third from her POV, so hopefully it works. 
> 
> (And, of course, it also has strong elements of Kristanna and Kristelsa BrOTP because it’s me.)

There are many things that Elsa has learned to adapt to as queen. Meetings, audiences, all sorts of things that require communication, clear, precise, and perfectly-stated.

 

Those she can handle, and often does, quite masterfully.

 

But this… this is something entirely new.

 

It’s not as though she’s never undertaken such a thing before, of course. It is, at its heart, a _speech_. Elsa has taken elocution lessons and learned proper diction since she was scarcely knee-high. She is regal, composed, eloquent, in speech as in everything. She is Queen, knows how to craft words into delicate sentences, strong ones, words that can move a kingdom to war or peace, to glory or ruin.

 

It’s not a long speech, they said. Just a few minutes. Just a benediction, really. A few kind words, a warm blessing, and off they go. Simple, they said. Easy, they said.

 

Two months later, as she sits at her desk, half-hidden behind a towering pile of papers, each sheet dark with frustrated lines, half-formed and crossed-out phrases, she glowers at the absent speakers and wishes for the comforting embrace of silence.

 

"Your majesty," Kai says carefully, nudging aside a few stray sheets of paper and setting a tea tray at the edge of her desk, "it would be perfectly acceptable for you to… _commission_ your speech from an outside source if you’re encountering some difficulties. I’m sure the bishop would be willing to…”

 

She stares at him, eyes baleful, darkly smudged beneath from lack of sleep. “No,” she says firmly, the word short and sharp, and it’s the only thing she’s said or written in ages with the weight of conviction behind it.

 

Kai knows her well. He bows deeply at the waist, straightens a nearby sheaf of papers, and retreats.

 

Elsa watches him go, and her shoulders sag as soon as the door closes, pressing down, her regal posture failing her entirely, and she almost wants to cry.

 

She can’t find the words.

 

There are none.

 

There are so many.

 

But they exist in the cold, empty space _between_ , and the gulf has narrowed (oh thank the heavens and all the saints that it’s finally narrowed) but she can’t find a way to twist her tongue and teeth into the right consonants, vowels, find the right words, the _perfect_ words…

 

A knock sounds at the door, awkward and heavy, and Elsa doesn’t bother to correct her posture. Knows that the person knocking will understand.

 

"You’re killing yourself," Kristoff says, stepping into her study and closing the door behind him.

 

She doesn’t speak, keeps her lips set in a tight, thin line and stares into nothingness.

 

Kristoff sighs, runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Elsa,” he says, crossing the room, resting his palms against her desk, over the papers, over stuttering sentences and awkward phrases, “it’s going to be fine.”

 

"I can’t do it," Elsa says, and she hates how her voice breaks on the words. "I can’t."

 

"Yes, you can."

 

"I’ve tried, Kristoff." She stands, shoves the papers aside, looks at him pleadingly as they flutter and settle. "I’ve written so many things, so many times. I can’t get it right."

 

"Who says you have to get it right? What is there to get _right_ with this?”

 

Elsa wrings her hands together, sighs, presses them over her face. “I have to get it right, Kristoff,” she says. “I just do.”

 

She starts as large, rough hands cover hers, pull them gently from her face, and she almost wants to cry at the gentleness in Kristoff’s eyes (so much different from the _other_ one’s, and oh, thank you god for bringing such a kind man to her sister).

 

"Elsa," Kristoff says, " _why_?”

 

Elsa tries to take a deep, steady breath, keeps her gaze as calm and level as she can. “Because they aren’t here,” she says, and something in her breaks at the words, her shoulders shaking, a knot of unshed tears burning hot and tight in the back of her throat. “Because they should be,” she manages, and it’s not the voice of a queen, but of an orphaned girl in a locked room, far away from her parents’ graves.

 

Kristoff is quiet for a long moment, glancing down at the papers. “Do you know how much it means to her that you’re doing this,” he says. It’s not a question.

 

Elsa has no answer.

 

Kristoff pulls back from the desk, and Elsa watches as he retreats into himself, just a little, and she manages the faintest hint of a smile. In this, as in a surprising number of things, they understand each other well.

 

"She hasn’t been sleeping," she hears him murmur, half to himself. "And I don’t… she’s not… she’s not _nervous_ or anything, I think… I _think_ she still wants this…”

 

There’s a flash of helpless doubt on his face, and Elsa’s smile grows. “She does,” she says, voice gentle and assuring. “You should have seen her at the dressmaker last week for her final fitting. She started crying because it was so lovely, and then she got upset because she was afraid that crying was going to ruin the fabric.”

 

Kristoff crooks a hint of a smile in return, and his eyes are warm and soft with the adoration she so often sees whenever Anna is mentioned between them. “I know,” he says. “And I know some of it is probably just normal nerves…”

 

"Excitement," Elsa says, teasing just a little, and her smile is warm when Kristoff blushes.

 

"But it’s…" His face is suddenly serious, and he meets Elsa’s gaze dead-on. "She talks in her sleep, you know. Sometimes. I think she talks so much when she’s awake that she just kind of keeps going even when she’s asleep."

 

"I won’t ask how you know so much about my sister’s sleeping patterns."

 

Kristoff shoots her a deadpan glance. He knows as well as she that it’s hardly a secret that he and the princess have been intimate. Many, many times, judging by the sounds that echo down the corridors late at night.

 

"Last night…" Kristoff starts, glancing down at the papers on Elsa’s desk, "she was asking why you weren’t there for the blessing. Where you were. Said she couldn’t do it without you there. She was crying." He levels her with a meaningful look. "It wasn’t the first time."

 

Elsa feels a sharp splinter of ice, somewhere deep within her heart, and she has to look away.

 

"I can’t," she manages after a moment, folding the edge of a nearby sheet of paper with one hand, distracting. "I’ve… I’ve tried so many times, Kristoff. I’ve _tried_. What am I supposed to _say_?” There’s a sob rising at the back of her throat, and she bites it back, feels it burn.

 

If only Mother were here. If only Mother’s words curved along the page, beautiful and flowing.

 

Mother would have known what to say. She would have. She would have written something grand, beautiful, moving, kissed Anna’s fair brow beneath a span of lace and tulle. She would have told her that she had grown so beautifully, that she had become a woman of kindness and strength, that she was a true credit to the kingdom. She would have stood regally, delivered her speech in easy, eloquent cadence, everything practiced and perfect.

 

Elsa could say that Anna had grown up beautifully. That she was strong and determined.

 

That she could say, could write so easily.

 

It was the rest of it that was so impossible, so utterly impossible to convey into words.

 

_I’m sorry I shut you out._

 

_I missed you._

 

_Thank you for saving me._

 

_Thank you for coming back._

 

_Thank you for never giving up, even when you should have._

 

_Thank you for being my sister._

 

_Even when I wasn’t yours._

 

Elsa starts when she realizes that Kristoff is watching her intently, something inscrutable in his eyes. “…I think that should work fine,” he says, after a long moment.

 

She stares at him. “I…” She pauses, stares down at her hands. “I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

 

"You did." Kristoff takes her hand, and she lets him. "Kind of glad you did. Was probably good for you."

 

Elsa can only nod, squeezing Kristoff’s hand a little. He’s warm, solid, anchoring. “Are…” She hesitates. “Do you have time now, by any chance?”

 

"Sure."

 

"Would you… be willing to be a sounding board? Of sorts?" She smiles at him, just a little. "I think I might actually have a good start now."

 

Kristoff offers her his familiar crooked grin and sits on the edge of her desk. “Go for it.”

 

Elsa can feel her shoulders comfortably lowered for the first time in ages — not tight and raised in regal tension, not rounded and slumped in frustration and defeat… but easy. Comfortable. Confident.

 

She knows what she has to do.

 

"Thank you," she tells Kristoff, and there’s an open warmth in her tone she so rarely uses, but it wraps around the words naturally, easily, and she likes it.

 

"Happy to help," Kristoff says. He hesitates, then says, "You’re important to me, too, you know. You mean so much to her, and I just… I know it’s been rough for you two with the whole… sister thing, and I’ve never _had_ a sister or anything… well, okay, some of the younger trolls are girls but it’s not _quite_ the same, and I…” He bites his lip, and Elsa can’t help but smile at the very _Anna-ness_ of the gesture (she thinks of the very _Kristoff-ness_ of the way Anna raises her eyebrows and quirks her smiles these days, and her heart warms, turns over, and oh, they’re such a pair, these two).

 

"If there’s anything I can do," Kristoff says, finally, "just let me know. You know."

 

Elsa neatly straightens a few papers, quirks a hint of a smile at him. “Anything?”

 

"Anything."

 

She tips her head to the side, thinking. “I would like nieces and nephews,” she says, straightening a few papers and fixing him with a regal stare. “A lot of them.”

 

Kristoff crooks a smile at her. “I think I can manage that.”

 

"Not yet," Elsa says, "but someday."

 

“‘Someday’ works. Let’s get through today first.”

 

And they do.

 

—-

 

Today turns into tomorrow.

 

Tomorrow turns to the following week.

 

Before Elsa knows it, six of them have passed and she stands in the Great Hall, a regal presence, her hair twined with strands of pure silver. Her back is straight, hands neatly folded at the front of her dress, a small notecard held between them as she watches Kristoff dance with her sister.

 

He’s terrible at it, poor thing, awkward and hesitant, but no one’s watching his steps. All eyes are on Anna, held tightly in his arms (too tightly, too close for the dance but even from this distance Elsa can see that he’s barely holding himself together, can see the faint shine of tears in his eyes, and he’s holding Anna close, adoring, his cheek pressed tight to her hair, every inch the look of a man who’s just been given his dearest wish and is desperate to hold fast to it).

 

Anna is every bit as radiant as Kristoff is awkward, her dress a beautiful creation of lace and silk, all whites and pale blues, pure-white flowers twined in her hair and the glow of tears on her cheeks.

 

Elsa has never, ever seen her smile so brightly, so purely, so much.

 

She coughs, raises one hand to brush at the corner of her eye surreptitiously.

 

The music draws to a close, and Kai clears his throat, gently but meaningfully, and Kristoff and Anna pull apart, blushing, their hands still clinging. Kristoff leans down, presses a kiss to the curve of Anna’s cheekbone, and she rises up on slippered tiptoe, presses her teary cheek to his.

 

"Queen Elsa of Arendelle," Kai announces, gesturing to Elsa.

 

The guests part, bow, allow Kristoff and Anna to reach the bottom of the dais. Anna smiles up at her and waves, the glint of her ring catching beautifully in the light, and she’s awkward and ridiculous but just so _happy_ that Elsa almost doesn’t hear Kai whisper something about her speech.

 

"Oh… yes," she manages, folding her hands at the front of her dress and gazing down at her sister and newly-minted brother-in-law.

 

Anna’s eyes are soft, gentle, and she smiles, giggles, clutches at Kristoff’s arm.

 

Kristoff folds his hand over hers, leans his cheek against her temple and raises his eyebrows questioningly at Elsa, mouths something.

 

_You can do this._

 

Elsa nods to him.

 

_I can do this._

 

_I can do this._

 

They’d practiced it for so long, her and Kristoff. They’d finally gotten it down. She’d finally found the words. She knew exactly what to say.

 

She looks to Anna, to her bright, smiling eyes, to the spread of youthful freckles across her pert nose.

 

She thinks of a young girl playing in a snow-filled courtyard, shrieking enthusiastically as they rolled together and made snow angels.

 

She thinks of trips to the kitchen, of stolen chocolates, of secretive giggles, of tell-tale smudges around their cheeks.

 

She thinks of a strong young woman, different but similar, so similar, climbing a twisting staircase of flawless ice, utterly determined.

 

She thinks of a brave, sacrificing sister, features shot through with blue-ice and frost, throwing herself in front of a sword, of the melting fjord beneath them as a long-shut door creaked open between them.

 

She thinks of the days, weeks, months since. Of picnics. Of skating trips. Of exhausted fights. Of tearful afternoons poring over scrapbooks. Of open doors, of strength, hope, and courage, steady, unflagging, indefatigable, no matter how many years spanned between them.

 

"Queen Elsa," Kai whispers, gently, urging her on. The Great Hall is silent. Kristoff and Anna are watching her, expectant.

 

She drops the notecard to the dais, lets it flutter down.

 

She knows the words.

 

"Anna," Elsa says, reaching out, taking her sister’s hands in her own and looking down at her, eyes warm and soft, and in that moment she is not a queen, not the provider of a blessing. She is simply an elder sister.

 

She tucks a stray strand of hair behind Anna’s ear, and finally allows the tears pushing at the back of her throat to shine in her eyes.

 

"I’m so proud of you," she whispers.

 

She wonders if she’s said the right thing when Anna’s lower lip quivers, twin tears slipping down her cheeks, and then Anna’s arms are tight around her shoulders, and Elsa hugs her tight, cries with her, because she can’t help it, her baby sister is _here_ , beautiful and strong and so perfectly imperfect and _grown_.

 

She sees Kristoff at the bottom of the dais through her tears. He smiles at her, gestures at them to continue, and she returns the smile but gestures him over.

 

"Family," she manages, reaching out a hand to him and pulling him into a tight embrace with her and Anna, and it’s warm and safe and so very wonderful that she cries harder.

 

"I love you," she hears Anna say, and she hugs her tighter.

 

"I love you too," Elsa says, straightening slightly and brushing aside Anna’s tears. "Now come on — you shouldn’t be crying so much on your wedding day."

 

"I can’t help it," Anna laughs, helping her dash away her tears. "It’s just been so _beautiful_ and everything has been _perfect_.” She grins, keeping Elsa’s hand clasped in hers, and turns back to Kristoff. “Kristoff,” she says, bouncing on the heels of her feet. “Guess what?”

 

"What’s that, feistypants?" he asks, grinning back at her and folding his arms over his chest.

 

"We’re married," Anna says, grasping his free hand with hers, smile growing even wider. "Kristoff, we’re _married_.”

 

"Yeah, we are." His eyes are soft, and he squeezes her hand. "Don’t ask me how that happened."

 

"I’m your _wife_.”

 

"Looks that way."

 

Anna squeals and throws her arms around him, and Kristoff laughs, catches her, hoists her up in his arms and kisses her, nudging her nose with his before whispering something in her ear that makes her flush and bite her lip.

 

Elsa rolls her eyes fondly and descends from the dais, laying a hand on Kristoff’s arm.

 

"Someday," she reminds him, reaching up to press a sisterly kiss to his cheek.

 

"Someday," Kristoff agrees. He glances to his wife held warmly in his arms, then back to her with a tilt of a mischievous grin. "Possibly someday soon."

 

Elsa laughs and moves further into the hall to mingle with the guests.

 

"Someday?" she hears Anna ask behind her. "What’s someday?"

 

She smiles to herself as Kristoff stumbles, hesitates.

 

She knows he’ll find the right words.


End file.
